Not Like This
by Enonamis
Summary: Modern/Human AU in which a young, terrified and guilty Gilbert reflects on himself and his family.


p class="Standard" style="text-align: center;" Not Like This/p  
p class="Standard" Was he going to get rid of me? Was he going to drop me off up in the mountains? Was he going to .. kill me? Oh, God, I'm sorry for doubting you, but emplease,/em I can't- I can't die like this. Not after sobbing in the back of such a rusty old American-imported pickup, not after getting in a fight with my brother- not because my father was just so pissed at me, he just .. put an end to me and my trouble. Not like this./p  
p class="Standard" I didn't live too great of a life, but that wasn't a reason to be fine with dying. I might have joked about it and thought about it, gotten a little too close to the edge of my roof, drank a little too much to imitate absence as best as I could- but that did emnot/em mean I was serious about any of it. I had a boy-crazy little sister and an even younger brother who was way too smart to emnot/em pick on 24/7. I had two awesome best friends who probably got me into more trouble than necessary, and I actually had decent grades for the little punk I was. I even had a pretty cool house that was hand-built by my great-grandfather before the war in the forest. But- I guess none of that mattered because.. well.. my father couldn't stand me, anymore./p  
p class="Standard" I was focused on the scenery that flew by as I was driven further into the Black Forest, eyes squinted against the sun and the nippy cold front that had rolled in. My short white hair was tousled by the wind. My face was undoubtedly as red as an Italian tomato, and I'm pretty sure I tasted blood because of how much I was chewing on my lip. I was looking out at the passing trees, but I didn't see much at all. My vision was clouded with the tears I'd been holding for the last twenty minutes of riding in the back of the rugged import. I didn't dare turn around to look in the cab of it, either. I could just feel those forest-green eyes piercing through my own ruby reds if I so much as glanced past to see where we were headed. So, all I knew was that we were driving further and further through the forest along the rising mountainside./p  
p class="Standard" After all, I was a nuisance who was way too mean to his siblings- I'd always fight with them and win because I was bigger and knew how to use my leverage and superiority. I'd always get into fist fights with my sister and we'd end up running and screaming through and around the house, throwing things and scaring my little brother into hiding. I'd listen to my music too loud just to get him to come complain to me because he couldn't read, then nag him and annoy him even more and eventually make him cry. I- .. I was a bad kid. Oh, God, and my father- he was always gone to work and would come home late and tired, but he'd always have to clean up after us because Elizibeta wouldn't be able to do the housework because she'd be so angry at me and refuse to clean up the things we'd break- I- he'd-/p  
p class="Standard" My hands found my face during my rambling thoughts, shaky fingers covering blurry eyes and gripping at trembling lips. Oh, God, my father- he was a bartender at a shabby speakeasy in Freiburg, the Southwest corner of Germany right next to the Black Forest where our home was built just in the rim of. He didn't make good money, anymore. We'd moved down to live in my great grandfather's house after he had a heart attack when I was nine, but.. it wasn't because someone needed to take care of the home. We wouldn't move from his good job with woodworking up near the Dane's border just for the emhouse/em./p  
p class="Standard" My mother passed away after giving birth to my little brother. Something went wrong and I don't know what; I was too young to remember what it was, and I most certainly don't want to know, now. My sister couldn't stop crying for months. Though she'd spent three fewer years with our mother than me, she'd taken it the worst. All I really remember from those two years we spent without her was thinking that Elizibeta must have cried enough for one household, because Ludwig, who was supposed to be the loud-mouth baby, hardly ever cried. He was always with my father. Always./p  
p class="Standard" I, on the other hand, became reclusive and would lock myself in the attic all day. I'd look out through the dusty old window and watch while they spent time together. It wasn't like I was being forced to be left out. No, I'd go to school, come home, and go up to the attic and refuse to come down until dinner time. My father tried to get me to spend some time with everyone, but I refused. I really hated being with my over-emotional sister, I hated the presence of a baby, and I most of all hated how my father didn't seem to change./p  
p class="Standard" He was still the same tall and solid German man, still had the same square jaw and shoulders, and above everything else- had the same lack of emwords/em that I really needed. The only time he'd talk to me was when I got home, when we bumped into each other, when I'd get my marks in from school, and when he'd ask if I wanted to come outside. I emhated/em that. .. Well.. there was a time I didn't hate his deep and guttural language. I'd like it when he would tell us all stories after dinner. That was something I was thankful for never changing. Even when my mom was around, he'd do that. She always wanted him to. So, he kept doing it even when she wasn't there to ask, anymore. But things changed after a while, I guess, like everything does./p  
p class="Standard" After Uropa died and my father and moved us down to live near Freiburg in his Opa's old house. I finally made new friends and was hardly ever home. I never saw Elizibeta cry again and Ludwig started school, getting to put his smarts to good use. It was really great, at first. But, of course, I liked freedom way more than what was healthy. emThat's/em why I was sobbing in the back of the cheap pickup being driven deep into the forest. I guess- I guess my father was more hurt by everything than he let on. .. I guess he hadn't taken Mutti's death so well, after all. He really had been in pain since it happened, and I'd basically ruined what was supposed to be the good, new chapter in our lives. He hadn't gotten a chance to heal well enough to deal with that./p  
p class="Standard" With me./p  
p class="Standard" My Vati can't deal with emme./em/p  
p class="Standard"em /emI'm crying so hard I can't breathe, now. After thinking of all that I'd done wrong to myself, my siblings and emhim/em, I can't stand to even embe/em me. All of a sudden my bright red skinny jeans feel too restricting, my plaid converse look too ridiculous, my studded belt feels more like a constrictor, and my bracelets with obscene quotes are blasphemous and deserve to be burned at the stake. I feel emwrong./em I begin to push off the rubber from my arms, hiccuping and throwing them to the back of the truck bed. It might be too late for me, but, God, I want to go as a good man. Let me go as a good man. I can't come to you like this. Not some wild teenage mess who deserves every bit of rocky mountainside hell he gets thrown to. I don't deserve my family, and they don't deserve me. They deserve to go on with their happy lives and-/p  
p class="Standard" I find myself leaning forwards not because my stomach is twisting with anger and choked sobs, but because the truck is slowing down. Oh, God- no, no, no- not yet! I haven't made amends yet- please, no! I grit my teeth and the tears stop abruptly, throwing off my studded belt with a yet-undiscovered loathing. I emrefuse/em to exit this world after realizing my mistakes and still being the same person I'd been for so long./p  
p class="Standard" I absolutely refuse./p  
p class="Standard" The truck comes to a complete stop on the side of the road and I hear the driver door open and close along with the soft crunches of footsteps on the rocks and grass. My face is contorted with anger and determination as I struggle with my shoelaces, the evidence of my breakdown still obvious. I hear the footsteps stop next to me, but I don't look up. I'm not ready, yet. I can't meet those eyes. A deep and gentle voice comes to my ears. It was strong- but reposeful./p  
p class="Standard" "Gilbert..."/p  
p class="Standard" I don't look up. I'm not ready. A shoe flies to the tailgate, bouncing over and landing on the road. I am about to work on the other, but my emotions betray me. I choke loudly, a struggling sob escaping my closed mouth and I squeeze my eyes shut./p  
p class="Standard" "Es tut mir leid," I whisper hoarsely, an apology being the only thing I can get out. My shoulders shake and I curl up and around my knees, head on them. I apologized for what I've put him through, not to get him to stop what he's doing. I can't get out the words to tell him that, but I know it doesn't matter. He's had enough. But I can't- my life-/p  
p class="Standard" The truck creaks and I lean to the side with a new weight in the bed of the pickup. The tire next to me slides away with such a force I fall over, but I hit the side of my father, instead. Big arms wrap themselves around my shaking frame and lift me up from the metal, pulling me to the warmth of his green sweater and bulky frame. Something in the back of my mind tells me it's all okay, and that's enough to make me cling to his shirt and bury my face in the fabric, choking and sobbing so violently I was probably close to throwing up. I was so wrong- emso wrong/em. I'd screwed up so much in our family and put so much stress on him it came down to this./p  
p class="Standard" I can only think of the dark circles under his once-lively and strong forest-green eyes, his slow gait that once strode so fast and with such ease I could barely keep up. I can only think of the long nights of scolding to my bedroom door that I'd reinforced with locks and chairs, how two or three times he'd busted down that door just to look me in the eye for a good few seconds. I can only think of how much I've hurt my siblings and how much that hurt him. Oh, God, please; emI am so sorry/em./p  
p class="Standard" But that voice comes again. It isn't scolding, it isn't reproachful./p  
p class="Standard" "Gilbert, ich liebe dich." The vibrations from his chest comfort me enough to hiccup and close my mouth, just taking in his strength to hold myself up. I find myself closing my eyes with my face turned into his chest, imagining a time back at home when he'd tuck me in at night and talk about things I couldn't understand just to get me to fall asleep. And I felt loved. I felt the slow and careful chisel of a mender work at me./p  
p class="Standard" "Peace, my boy, peace... I just want to talk with you, liebe. I know you hurt, and I so do I. We're going to fix ourselves; I promise you this. ...Ich liebe dich."/p 


End file.
